


Stolen Dance

by kuro49



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Dancing, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>尊   毅   勇榮   忠   誠</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>重   力   氣     譽   誠   信</strong>
</p><p>They put up six words on the walls of the Kwoon.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from Milky Chance and the song that was played on repeat. (this was really all just to write someone getting blown at the Marshal's desk, inspired by the [details as seen in the auction](http://shatterdomeatl.tumblr.com/post/95523828168/bonus-prop-preview-its-the-weekend-but-a))

**re·spect** /riˈspekt/

 _noun_  
1\. a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements.  
2\. a particular aspect, point, or detail.

 _verb  
_ 1\. admire (someone or something) deeply, as a result of their abilities, qualities, or achievements.

 

You see the behemoth’s hand closing into a fist and the man who does this.

You see him and he isn’t trickling blood out of his nose like that footage of Captain Adam Casey you’ve seen. There’s sweat pouring down his face, and you don’t doubt this.

This is the forefront of the Jaeger Program, breaking ground with every pace, and you’re standing behind a pane of glass while this man named Stacker Pentecost moves the fingers of a prototype of what they are calling a Jaeger. He has a background in avionics, defence, and warfare. He’s not a captain, and he won’t be a Marshal for years to come. He is a volunteer but aren’t you all, standing here, waiting to be test-pilots to machines not yet built.

He looks up, and you think he sees you pass the glass.

But you can’t imagine what he might be looking at when he finally rests his eyes on you.

 

 

 **en·dur·ance** /enˈd(y)o͝orəns/

 _noun_  
1\. the fact or power of enduring an unpleasant or difficult process or situation without giving way.  
2\. the capacity of something to last or to withstand wear and tear.

 

Ranger-ready, they give you and Tam a beauty that goes by the name of Coyote Tango just as the new year comes. Counting down, Hercules Hansen will get his hands on Lucky Seven one month down the line.

And in one month, he will be stationed in Sydney, you in Tokyo.

The two of you separated by an ocean you will be defending with you and your children’s lives. You have trouble sleeping, and find yourself in the Kwoon in the middle of the night, bare feet atop the mats, his boots sitting next to yours, him already swinging his bō through the air.

The thin sheen of sweat on him is indication enough.

He has trouble sleeping just as you do.

This is the point in history where the walls are blank and the mats are new. This is the point in history where you watch the man five years your senior run himself ragged for a peace of mind or a single night of good sleep he hasn't had since Scissure.

This is not on your watch though, not yet anyway.

 

 

 **cour·age** ˈ/kərij,ˈkə-rij/

 _noun_  
1\. the ability to do something that frightens one.  
2\. strength in the face of pain or grief.

 

“May I…?"

This is not the same night as that first time he's caught you here on your own. And what you are is that you are in the Kwoon, bare feet, and looking to understand drift compatibility as something bigger than yourself. The music is coming from an iPod plugged into speakers sitting by the socket of the far wall, his co-pilot’s playlist drumming a bass line against your bones.

Knowing you ought to feel worn and run into the ground, here, oh here, Stacker is smiling as he takes your hand. (And you his as a replacement of that hanbō that's got the shape of your palms against its length.)

And for this dance, he is the 02 to your 01.

You lead, and he follows perfectly.

You don’t know the exact thought that runs through his head when he takes the step, not half a step behind you but rather, in tandem. The beat barely a match against the way the two of you move. You don’t know he is smiling because _if only Luna can see you now, being led into this dance_. You don't know that this will be your last time either, here, with him, doing this dance.

But you do know, you are not the only one doing a brave thing when you offer and he takes a shot on you.

If only because it’s you.

 

 

 **hon·our** /ˈänər/

 _noun_  
1\. high respect; esteem.  
2\. a privilege.

 _verb_  
1\. regard with great respect.  
2\. fulfill (an obligation) or keep (an agreement).

 

You regard him as this.

Down on your knees between the spread V of his legs, Herc with one hand clutching against the edge of your desk, blunt nails digging into the lacquer of the wood.

You are not sure what view the two of you make, him with his flight suit unzipped and pushed down to his hips, and you with your mouth wrapped around the girth of his length, you with your head between his legs.

He looks down at you, and sees the way a man who has control in spades give in, loosening up as you gag lightly at the weight on your tongue and the taste hitting the back of your throat. His white tank is shoved up to where he has the soft cotton between his teeth, dogtags still metal warm from the press of his skin. You swallow and you swallow as he makes the most lovely noises above you, and you are pleased to see that you are not the only one that needs this release as bad as you do.

You feel less guilt, that this is less of an act of taking him just for yourself and more of something you can both keep for the nights when the most senior Ranger under the Marshal’s command isn’t right here with you, isn’t beneath your skin like a bad, bad hit. He tightens his hand on the back of your neck, your hair much too short for him to get a grip in. He doesn’t push you forward or pull you back, just bites the cotton until his teeth grinds and you are swallowing as he comes.

The warning signs are all there, from the shiny silver box of Metharoxin to that ring on his finger still, that this will end badly for the both of you.

But for now, all you can imagine is the push of his tongue into your mouth, the traces of him down your throat, and the way he would pant as you fuck into him on top of your new Marshal’s desk.

 

 

 **loy·al·ty** /'loiəltē/

 _noun  
_ 1\. the quality of being loyal to someone or something, a strong feeling of support or allegiance.

 

There is one thing that you never say, and it’s very much why he never asks to stay.

“We’re drift compatible.”

But that in itself is a complicated thing. It feels like drinking on an empty stomach, tasting bubbles on the tongue and having it burst at the pit of your gut at the sight of him, feeling the emptiness like a fist around your heart, squeezing tighter still.

Neither one of you ever get the chance.

You make him a promise, or maybe you make him ten.

Still, you’re never meant to be the fixed point. You don’t stepped inside the Kwoon and circle the mats with him for half a decade, and by Year 11, you become the last man standing in his place.

You touch the end of the bō against the mats and you remember the beat of Tamsin Sevier’s favorite song playing on repeat, echoing off of concrete walls, Stacker’s steps taken in tandem to yours. Beat for beat for beat for every single beating you have taken since.

You remember that dance you’ve only ever had one partner for.

 

 

 **hon·es·ty** /ˈänistē/

 _noun_  
1\. the quality of being honest.

 

You’re all that, he is more.

There are six words on the walls of the Kwoon.

Each one faded but not gone, never that, by the end of the war.

 

 

XXX Kuro


End file.
